


Observation

by shouldgowork



Category: Fringe (TV)
Genre: M/M, Set between season 4 and 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 11:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12934752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shouldgowork/pseuds/shouldgowork
Summary: The imposed punishment of true, primitive humanity was a gift to Donald from the start. But some gifts can be very difficult indeed to master.





	Observation

 1.

The imposed punishment of true, primitive humanity was a gift to Donald from the start. But some gifts can be very difficult indeed to master.

There are countless emotions, he comes to realise, that cannot be observed. The unendurable rage brought on by a crowd, inconsiderately shuffling with all the speed of a mountain growing, separating him from his local coffee shop, for example, and the effort it requires not to physically shove children and the elderly from his path. He worries seriously, for a little while, if he is a monster, if a lifetime of Observer tech and genetic engineering have ruined him, until he becomes more attuned to the details of the human body – a rolled eye, a clenched jaw, even an increase in breathing rate – can betray, and he realises he’s not alone in this. He sees with what large and clumsy brush strokes they had painted the world, how intricate and complex is this society he is trying to join.

Even something as mundane as food is a minefield. He learns the hard way that a dash of salt is a pleasure, a spoonful of the stuff is an evening of chest pains and vomiting spells. That mushrooms do indeed have a rich, earthy taste, but the soil itself is far less palatable. One day he absentmindedly adds his formerly accustomed amount of chilli and ends up eyes streaming and face on fire, groaning between mouthfuls of something cold and sweet from a glass that appears in his hand courtesy of the laughing waitress. But even through the searing discomfort, another moment of clarity – he _feels_ the humour of the situation. He understands that their very attempts to understand and explain humour have been hopelessly misguided. Which, in itself, turns out to be funny. Through milk and tears he can’t hold in a laugh which sends the stuff, unexpectedly, through his nose and down his front, as he thinks about how much of his life he wasted on silly questions.

In careless haste reading a newspaper one morning, he cuts his finger on a page and wonders how these same hands ever caught bullets. It stings far more than he expected it to as, he discovers, does stubbing your toe. So many little hurts, so constantly endured, and he wonders how humans get anything done as a species.

What he’s known so long through observation is made entirely new by experience, and while he wants to find it all exciting, in truth, it’s a little overwhelming. He learns that reaction is his limit; action beyond him. That he can make adjustments to his former routines, but can’t quite negotiate new ones. That he can talk on a human level to the one man he knows, but that, once he’s gone, he doesn’t even know how to go about replacing that bond.

He is inside the maze, but he hasn’t become one of the rats. With every day that passes, he blends more and more into the walls, merely watching them all scurry past. He goes to the coffee shop and sits; he goes home and sits more. The days turn into weeks and then months, and Donald somehow feels as if he’s drowning all the time with nothing to grab on to.

 

2.

‘For an _ex_ -Observer, you sure do still spend a lot of time watching people.’ A man said quietly, sitting himself down in Donald’s booth, opposite him, distracting him from the view of the street outside.

‘But for you to know that, you must also watch me.’ Donald replied with an uneasy frown, not least at the thought that his true identity was so obvious.

‘Doesn’t feel good, does it?’ The man asked, an edge to his tone that kept Donald silent. They eyed each other silently a moment until the interloper extended his hand.

‘My name’s-‘

‘-Sam Weiss.’

The man’s eyebrows quirked momentarily in surprise. ‘Oh, of course you’d know. What with your ‘observing human history’ thing.’

‘Yes. You dedicated your entire life to saving the world from apocalyptic catastrophe, and then this happened instead.’ He said, pointing at an Observer poster hanging on the wall, prompting a loud and long laugh from the other man, not the first time his factual descriptions of events have elicited this response.

‘That’s about right, yeah.’

‘That must have been…irritating.’ Donald went on, still very unsure of the nature of this interaction, and of how he ought to respond.

Sam shrugged casually though he had a bitter look. ‘It had its upsides. Being on retainer for Nina Sharpe, for one.’ 

Donald thought back to what he knew. ‘You did not live the life of a rich man, though. You spent all your time in your bowling alley. We were never quite sure why.’

‘Didn’t know I was such a person of interest.’ Sam replied.

‘You weren’t. It didn’t matter where you spent most of your time, but it aroused my personal curiosity the few times I observed you.’ Donald said truthfully.

‘How so?’

‘I wondered why you spent so much time at a job when you had no need of one. I suppose now that you did so because you enjoyed the occupation.’

Sam inclined his head in what seemed to be a gesture of agreement, a casual motion, one he’d sometimes observed as a mark of disrespect, other times as one of familiarity. He wasn’t sure which category this fell under, but even the former was a pleasant distraction from monotony.

‘I’m Donald, by the way.’ He went on; it seemed the appropriate continuation of whatever this was.

‘Wasn’t sure if your kind had names.’ Sam replied, the edge back in his voice.

Something squirmed in Donald’s stomach. ‘Observers don’t have names, as you would understand them. But I do. I am not one of them any longer. How did you even know I ever was?’ He said, keeping his voice carefully low against the gentle hubbub of the room.

‘How did you pick your name?’ Sam replied as if by way of answer.

Donald ran his finger nervously over the rim of his glass, unwilling to mention Walter’s name in a crowded public place.

‘A friend of mine, a rather eccentric man. You’ve met him too. He tried to acclimate me culturally. He showed me a few of his favourite movies, I picked a name from the first.’ He explained, feeling that slight hollow in his chest he’d decided long ago was the sensation of missing someone.

‘And how did you enjoy them?’

‘I liked them. But there weren’t many before we were…cut short by events.’

‘Which was your favourite?’

‘They were all pleasant.’

‘And have you seen any since?’

‘No.’ Donald replied, confused by this interest in something so mundane.

‘So what do you do? For fun?’

Donald gestured at the table they were sat at, and the window.

Sam didn’t reply, eyes searching his face, and Donald felt as if he were being appraised.

‘Come to the bowling alley this evening, around 7.’ The man said, not waiting for a response before he

 

3.

When he arrived, Sam had a stack of CDs waiting.

‘I thought we could listen to this.’ He said, putting one of them on. Donald nodded politely. The player emitted a high-pitched screeching noise that Donald guessed was developed as a form of crowd control. It persisted for several minutes before either of them said anything.

‘Thoughts?’ Sam shouted above the noise.

‘It is a part of 21st century culture.’ Donald said in an even tone, wanting to take a hammer to the disk.

‘Enjoying it?’

‘It’s interesting.’ He forced out.

‘Great! We’ll continue.’ Sam replied cheerily, moving on to the next, even more obnoxious than the last, and so on, and so on, until half an hour had passed, and the very few patrons at the alley had been chased out by the sound. Donald endured it until he thought he might actually be sick.

‘I… I’m not sure I am enjoying this.’ He finally said through gritted teeth, loudly, to rise above the throbbing noise.

‘I know. You can’t stand it.’ Sam said with a smirk, instantly turning it off. Donald merely blinked at him for a few moments.

‘You are an asshole.’ He said finally, the colloquialism uncomfortable but too apt not to use it.

‘I’m glad you think so.’ Sam replied, smirk widening to a grin.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You will. I’ll see you around.’ Sam said, and Donald took this as his all too welcome cue to leave, walking the short distance home scowling in confusion at the sidewalk.

He sank heavily onto his sofa, rubbing his temples as if to rub out the last of the horrid noise, wondering if he’d just had a nasty trick played on him. Probably, he thought to himself. Who on earth would do anything to an observer except torment them, if they had the chance? The miserable thought preoccupied him until he drifted off to an uneasy sleep.

To his surprise, he woke up feelingly strangely determined, and went down to the nearest of the countless junk shops that had opened up since the occupation began.

‘What can I do for you?’ The owner asked.

‘I need some records.’

‘What kind?’

‘Every kind. A couple of each, please. Your choice.’

He looked surprised but fulfilled the request, after all, money was money, particularly these days. Donald went home again with a large stack under his arm and got started. One after the other he played them, feeling only a general amenability. Eventually he put on Gershwin and at the first soaring note of _Rhapsody in Blue_ he began to cry.

The song felt so good in his head, he could feel it radiating down to his fingertips. There was no other way to describe it, no logical way to explain it, but he listened to the whole thing weeping with pleasure. The moment his tears dried he rushed back to the store and bought the rest of the man’s jazz collection.

The next day, he did the same with books in a curious little shop he’d observed Peter Bishop at a few times.

‘You want one of each genre? Of _every_ genre?’ The man behind the desk scoffed at him, managing to look down his nose despite the considerable height difference in Donald’s favour.

‘Yes.’

‘Hope you’ve bought a pack mule with you.’

‘Perhaps just start with ten books, then, at random.’

The man gave him a look but complied, and for the rest of the day and night, Donald was utterly entranced by Milton, seduced by Rossetti.

He was still so engrossed the next morning at the coffee shop that he didn’t notice the seat in front of him being pulled up.

‘Saki? Didn’t figure you’d have a sense of humour.’ Sam said drily, looking at the cover of this latest book. Donald started slightly.

‘It seems I do.’

‘Good. This is a shitty world without one.’

Donald finally understood.

‘This was your intention.’ He said, not a question. ‘You goaded me so that I would think about what I wanted and did not want.’ Sam nodded, and Donald’s head turned quizzically.

‘You were still just observing. Just needed a little push.’ He said, by way of explanation.

‘Which is how you knew what I was?’

‘I could spot you a mile off.’

Whatever thought processes go on in that man’s head must be magic, Donald thought to himself. There’s no other way to describe it. It puts the Observer tech to shame.

‘Why did you take the trouble?’

‘It was getting a little depressing to watch, to be honest.’

‘You could have stopped watching.’

Sam shrugged and gestured to the waitress to order. Donald had to be content with that answer as, the moment the waitress left, Sam began to tell him about Wodehouse and Wilde and how Sam thinks he’d love them.

‘Clearly, it would be foolish not to take your advice in the future.’ Donald said with a wry smile.

‘Won’t argue with that.’

 

4.

The first big project Donald wanted to undertake was decorating his apartment, which he had kept entirely as it was given to him. Sam had been happy to help despite his grumbling at the ‘oppressive classiness’ he accused Donald of going for.

‘Well, you can go through the paint swatches I’m picking out and discard the ones you hate. Not that there’s many choices these days.’ Donald said absent-mindedly.  

‘Been a while since I saw Cretan Hieroglyphic.’ Sam said, glancing casually over the table at the note Donald was making; it was still force of habit to use the Observer script in private. ‘Or Akkadian for that matter.’

‘Of course, I forget sometimes, the education your family business required.’ Donald replied, taking a moment to marvel, not for the first time, at the brain the unassuming man had. ‘You know, you could have made quite the name for yourself in the academic world through decipherment.’

‘Too easy, too boring. And at least four world experts would’ve tried to murder me for destroying their life’s work. Not much fun in that.’

Donald could see his reasoning.

‘Not that I don’t have an interest in all of that old stuff. Like you do I guess.’

‘As you say.’

They stopped working and played hangman in Etruscan just because they could, and Donald regaled Sam with his first-hand accounts of Julius Caesar.

‘So he was bald and arrogant?’ Sam said at the end of it. ‘A bit like some people we know.’

‘But he was also charming, and deeply loved by his friends.’ Donald countered, laughing.

‘Not so different from some of them, then.’ Sam mumbled, and Donald supposed he was referring in some way to the loyalists the rest of them have quickly come to loathe.

 

5.

They saw more and more of each other. Sam taught him to bowl (terribly), Donald repaid the favour by teaching the other man how to block his thoughts from Observers (luckily rather better), for no reason other than the sheer luxury of privacy. Though Donald had his arts and his literature, in the friend department he was still rather lacking. Luckily for him, it seemed that Sam was in much the same position. It made sense, he supposed. In their different ways, they’re both just as much fish out of water in this brave new world they’ve found themselves in. He didn’t think he even _could_ be friends with anyone else, not in quite this way at least.

He found himself compelled to explain this to Sam one evening, as they sat in his apartment playing poker, another pastime he’d found he was skilled in. _With that face? How can you not win._ Sam had groaned, the first four times he’d lost in a row.

‘You had Bishop.’ Sam replied to his rambling, though he looked somehow a little pleased.

‘Yes, but…’

‘But?’

Donald was still not an expert at describing emotions in what he recognised to be a conventional way, but he ploughed on nonetheless. Sam was used to his idiosyncrasies by now.

‘He was in a different part of my heart. He was up here, and you’re here.’ He said, moving his finger from top left to the centre of his chest. ‘And I worried less about how he felt, what he thought. I missed him less when I didn’t see him. I thought of him _far_ less when he wasn’t around me. Do you know, sometimes I wake up wondering how you are feeling?’

He stopped, suddenly self-conscious, suddenly aware that this was not, perhaps, the sort of thing he’d heard in his many observations of friends, not helped by the fact that Sam was staring at him.

‘Perhaps that is not normal.’ He went on, with what he could only describe as the first and last giggle of his life, accompanied by strangely itchy hands.

‘No.’ Sam said slowly. ‘It’s not normal.’

Donald squirmed.

‘But that doesn’t mean it’s unwelcome.’

Donald’s brows furrowed with the effort of parsing this statement, and when Sam leaned in slowly he thought it was to explain.

In a sense it was.

Afterwards, as his ears rang, and he was painfully, wonderfully aware of the arm round his shoulder, he couldn’t keep quiet.

‘I get it now.’ He said, a little dazed.

‘Hm?’

‘Cleopatra. Salome. Mata Hari.’ He’d watched them all and wondered for a long time at how powerful their charms were. He understood it now with perfect clarity.

‘Not sure how I feel about that comparison.’ Sam said with a playful punch on his arm. ‘And all I did was _kiss_ you.’

Donald whispers an apt quotation from _Henry IV,_ another new favourite, into his ear and delights in the almost imperceptible shiver this drags out of the other man.

 

6.

‘What’s this for?’ Donald asked, examining the small box that had been dropped wordlessly in the palm of his hand.

‘Well.’ Sam said offhand, looking like he wanted the ground to swallow him up, ‘it’s been a year, hasn’t it?’

Donald thought for a moment and realised with a nasty shock that he was right.

‘Hey, what’s the matter?’ Sam said worriedly, dropping down beside him instantly and catching him up in a hug.

Linear time. It had seemed as endless as the sands on the shore when he’d first started to live like this. An hour, let alone a day, crawled torturously. But with Sam, he’d seemed almost literally to have blinked and missed several months altogether. It was terrifying.

‘Like Einstein said, relativity’s a bitch. But we’ve all got to deal with her.’ Sam deadpanned, though his grip tightened.

‘You don’t understand.’ Donald said, tears starting to pour down his cheeks.

The desperate and daring plan he and Walter had hatched in the last few weeks before all hope was lost, before the ambering. They’d known it would take years if not decades to come to fruition. It had seemed then like an inconceivably long period of time, but now? Now it was galloping towards him and his newfound happiness. He outlined the grim future that he knew was coming come sooner or later.

‘Shit, its gonna get _that bad_?’ Sam said, his heart beating faster with fear against Donald’s face.

Donald nodded against his chest, before pulling away, accidentally knocking the box to the floor where it opened to reveal, ironically, a beautiful vintage watch.  

‘You will have heard rumours of a nascent resistance movement. They cannot win. But there’s another plan to stop the Observers.’ He went on, wiping his face dry.

‘Your plan?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I have complete faith.’

Donald gripped his wrist almost involuntarily. ‘If it succeeds, I will never have been born.’

The look on Sam’s face as he worked through the implications of this sent knives through Donald’s gut.

‘No.’ Sam said, shaking his head violently. ‘ _No._ I’m gonna help you with this plan of yours.’

‘Really?’ Donald said. He hadn’t considered the possibility of shouldering this burden with someone else.

‘Of course. And we’ll find a way for you to stay here. I _know_ we can. If we have to somehow park you in the alternate universe, or, I dunno, encase you in kryptonite, or whatever, we’ll manage it. After all the craziness we’ve both lived through and caused, we can do this.’

In the cozy, private warmth of their home, and the fierce determination in Sam’s voice, Donald could almost believe it was possible.

 


End file.
